


Stopgaps

by novoentrudo



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anonymous Sex, M/M, Unrequited Love, Unsafe Sex, implied Oswald/Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoentrudo/pseuds/novoentrudo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Would there still be this hint of danger even if it was with Jim?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stopgaps

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I jotted out last night and today. Warnings for unsafe sex.

The bar is one on the far north end of town. Small — low ceilings, dark colors, barely any room to walk between the bar and the small dinner-booths where men with gold teeth and black eyes play cards, smoke cigarettes, drink cheap booze. It's not like Fish Mooney's place, built with a singular aesthetic in mind, but instead, something that's been added onto bit-by-bit, until it's clogged by neon signs, mismatched barstools, flyers pinned-up for shows long since passed, and framed photos that the owner must have tacked up in an attempt to give the place some modicum of class despite it all.

Oswald, however, doesn't mind the close quarters; rather, it seems like it's built with him in mind. He doesn't feel so dwarfed here, like it's everyone else who's forced to fit into this space, as opposed to those wide-open places that only make him feel more diminutive in contrast. And here, no one pays him any mind — he's neither important, nor is he unimportant, and he's certainly not the most freakish one amongst the crowd.

He sits down and orders a drink — a mint julep, and doesn't pay attention to the sneer the bartender gives him. Oswald is dressed a bit more casual than normal, wearing not his prim suit-and-vest but rather a tight black sweater that his mother had bought him a few years back, and a pair of dark grey trousers that seem as black as the sweater in this dingy place. Oswald places his money on the table as he scans the scene around him for any details that he may have missed on the way in.

He sees a man at the other end of the bar — broad frame, short blond hair. Oswald's tongue touches his upper lip, an involuntary motion, as he leans back, eyes growing a bit narrow. He does look a bit like Jim, doesn't he, especially in this low light.

The drink is placed in front of Oswald, and he takes a sip. Although he takes his time with the drink, it doesn't take long until he feels the way the alcohol starts to warm his throat and insides, loosen up the ache in his muscles a bit. It's embarrassing, how little it takes to have an effect on him.

He studies this blond-haired man. He's come here by himself, that much is clear. This might even be his first time in a place like this. And he's searching — but not for drugs, and not for women, because tonight there aren't any of the latter here at all (a bit of a surprise, considering the market for certain favors and purchased affection). Though his movements don't betray him, there is a kind of fleeting desperation in the way his eyes strain to take in details that he doesn't want to turn his head to see. The newcomer now stares at a younger man engaged in a heated conversation nearby. The younger man turns to order another drink, and the newcomer's gaze is back down at his own drink.

Oswald looks at how he's dressed — just a t-shirt, showing off his thick arms. Blue jeans. Probably works a physical job, if the dark grease stains on the legs of his jeans are any indication. And Oswald doesn't recognize this man, not at all — which is important. Can't picture him working for Falcone, Mooney, Maroni.

The newcomer now notices Oswald's stare. At first, there's the brief flutter of fear in Oswald's stomach, made hotter by the alcohol — will such a gaze be met with typical machismo and aggression? But, no. Not this time, nor any previous time, has he been wrong — not about this sort of thing. It's never been so difficult to pick up other people's motivations, inclinations, and for that skill he's grateful.

He takes a final sip of his drink, a slight smirk upon his face as he cocks his head to gesture towards the bar's back entrance.

• • •

And now they're in the alleyway a half a block away. It's lit by a streetlight, but only dimly, giving shapes an orange glisten, like everything is wrapped in sweat.

There's no kissing, no affection. Broad hands reach under Oswald's shirt, stroke his sides. Fingertips briefly trace across his left nipple, which the man gives a sharp squeeze to, making Oswald wince. This man smells like oil, sweat, the residue of cigarette smoke, although this man himself doesn't strike Oswald as a smoker. Oswald breathes it all in, eyes closed. It's not what Jim would smell like. That part, he doesn't like.

And then he's turned around, pushed belly-down against a nearby barrel. He wants to say, "You really don't waste any time, do you-" but the words are lost somewhere in that heat that fills his lungs and stomach, and all that comes out is a slow, shuddering moan. It must make him sound like quite the whore for all of this, he thinks.

The man grinds his hips forward, cock not yet out, but Oswald can feel how hard it is already against his ass. His own cock strains forward, trapped, but aching; he can feel the slickness of pre-come at his tip. The man unzips his jeans, strokes himself as Oswald just faces forward towards the brick wall.

"You have a condom?" Oswald asks. His voice is breathy, heart beating in his chest almost fast enough to be painful.

"No." The man replies in a way that leaves little room for Oswald to retort. Those strong hands are already on his narrow hips, yanking his trousers downwards.

"M-my belt..." Oswald manages to get out. He braces himself against the barrel with one hand, the other reaching down to undo the silver buckle. His movements are clumsy, hurried, but he manages to get his belt undone all the same, and the man doesn't wait for further permission. Oswald inhales with a sharp insistence as he feels the cold air against his ass, this man having yanked down his trousers and his boxer-briefs down in one hurried motion. Oswald's grateful that he doesn't hear the rip of fabric, and just pushes back a bit. Hopes he doesn't seem to eager, but all the same, he doesn't really care.

It's going to hurt. It always does. Men like this don't take the time to prepare him — his pleasure is always secondary. And this man is no exception to the rule. He doesn't even ask for lubricant, as some of them do, and now the head of his cock is slick against the cleft of Oswald's ass, pushing up and down, trying to line up with his hole.

Oswald wonders if Jim would take him slow, or rough. He thinks about the way the other man had pushed him up against the building after Oswald had showed up at his apartment, how Oswald had been close enough to smell him in that moment — Jim had smelled not like sweat and grease, but rather, nice cologne. Strong, but clean, like the barrel of a gun.

The black-haired man bites his lower lip. His mouth feels dry but the rest of him is wet, sweaty. It's not a pleasant sensation for him, as though even his hands are hot enough to leave salty palm-prints on the barrel beneath him.

After that confrontation outside the apartment, Oswald had come home with a bruise upon his back — he had told his mother that his leg had given out going down some stairs, and he'd struck it against the bannister in the fall. That night had been the first time that he'd come thinking of Jim, and it had taken him no time at all, his body filled with such a frantic _need_ to both possess and be possessed by this bold savior.

The head of the man's cock-head finally hits that tight, puckered hole. Large hands grip his hips as the man braces himself, lines himself up. Starts to push inside.

"Oh g-god..." Oswald all but yells but quickly silences himself. Can't be discovered, not like this. It's bad enough to be like this at all, bad enough to admit that this is how he likes it, that this is the only way that he can get it. What he wouldn't have done for some fucking lubrication, though, because this man's cock is stretching him, shoving through that ring of muscle. He's big, bigger than some of them, and he's taking his time getting inside. Maybe Oswald is too small, too tight to allow the man to impale himself in one quick motion. It's not like Oswald does this frequently. Only when the urge gets too unbearable for him to deny. A controlled loss of control that keeps him steady the rest of the time, is how he justifies it all.

Jim has to be big like this, right? Oswald closes his eyes. This man may not sound the part of the handsome detective, but with the alcohol buzz still swilling through his veins, it's easy enough for Oswald to tune out the sound of the man's lewd, animalistic grunts. He allows the noise to become something abstract, unworthy of his focus, no different from the cat-hiss of the steam-pipes, the rumbling of the traffic, or the clanking of the trains that shudder just upon the edge of hearing.

The man's now in him to the hilt, and Oswald does his best not to tense up. Can't risk tearing himself, though it's already starting to hurt, to burn inside, and even that cocktail had done little to help loosen him up.

"Jesus christ…" He almost sobs as he presses forward against the barrel, no longer able to keep himself help upright at all.

The man pulls out now with a slow intake of air, and it's just as rough as the first push in. Oswald squirms despite himself, and he's gone completely soft. Is he regretting this?

The alleyway reminds him just enough of the site of that wall-side confrontation that when he closes his eyes and bites down on his tongue, it's easy to imagine that this is how it could have all gone down. It's almost like his fantasies, in fact, and that helps with the pain as the man slides in and out of him, a chorus of crude grunts behind him.

Oswald's starting to loosen up, at least, and he can feel his cock getting harder once more. The first part's always the worst — and it's not that it's any less painful, but he finds himself getting used to it. And there's something else, too — a pleasure in it all, both in the physical end of things and in the way it feels to surrender to someone else, to flirt with danger like this.

Would there still be this hint of danger even if it was with Jim?

The thickness of the cock inside him spreads him wide, each thrust in making him feel stretched and full and each pull out causing him yearn for the next. He's fully hard again, and he reaches down to stroke himself in time. The grip upon his hips is getting tight, fingernails digging into his skin. Oswald hopes that he won't leave little half-moon scrapes — a bruise he could excuse with some fabricated story, but little nail-marks would be harder to explain.

Oswald's started to moan and gasp, and the sound mixes with the other man's grunts. He feels those heavy, sweat-slick balls slap against his own with each thrust, and Oswald almost wishes he could turn around, as if he might see Jim's face contorted in lust behind him. But looking back would only break this illusion and so instead he strokes himself faster, that thick cock hitting his prostate with each thrust, and he's so close, then lets out a whimper of surrender as he comes against his palm and onto the barrel. His orgasm makes him whimper in such pained surrender, and he lets it overtake him until the last shots of that fluid drip hot from his cock and hand and onto the pavement below.

The man behind him doesn't stop, just keeps pounding him, and now Oswald's body is limp beneath him, soft and weak, and he's shivering. The desperate need for pleasure has now subsided, and now the pain brings tears into his eyes. He thinks of how he'd begged for mercy on the docks, how he'd placed his life in Jim's hands. He thinks of doing the same now, because he swears he's being torn apart, being split right down the middle-

The man lets out a too-loud grunt as he finally comes, hips pressed as far forward as they'll go against the smaller man, and Oswald cries out, fingernails against the barrel. He wants to pull away from it all but he's still held firm, and so he relinquishes control. Thinks about the way the water had been so cold on that day, soaked through everything, and it had been like being born again.

The man leans against him, chest sweaty on Oswald's back as the aftershocks from his own orgasm shake and then still his body, before he pulls out with a slick, slurping sound. At this, Oswald lets out a deep breath, like he'd been holding it in the whole time. He feels so dirty — forehead sweaty, hair tangled up in loose strands. He suddenly wishes that he had his suit, or at least access to one of the handkerchiefs that he always keeps in his breast pocket. At least his mother will be asleep by the time that he gets home. Thank heaven for small miracles.

The man gives him one last slap on the ass, and then Oswald turns around, still panting. Gets one last glimpse of this stranger's softening cock as the man tucks himself back in. Oswald tenses up when he sees the streak of blood running down the shaft, but doesn't say a word, just swallows the lump that's since collected in his throat.

He's not sure what he should say now. Parting ways after trysts such as these is never such a casual affair. The other man is staring at Oswald's face now, like he's unsure what to think of all of this. And this man doesn't feel so dangerous now. There's even a smile on his lips.

"Hey, relax." The man gives Oswald a gentle pat on the cheek. Oswald closes his eyes, pulls back a bit, but only out of reflex. He thinks of Jim, who must be asleep in his bed at the other side of the city. "Be seeing you around sometime?"

Oswald lets out a nervous laugh. He doesn't respond, just pulls up his pants, straightens his clothing out as best he can, fixes his hair with his fingertips. Tries not to look too much like someone who just got fucked raw in an alleyway.

And now the man's walking away, towards the street. From behind, it really is remarkable how much he looks like Jim. Oswald really managed to pick a good one this time. Some nights, he could be so very lucky.

But then the man turns, gives him one last smile, and the illusion's broken once more. Oswald waves, a half-hearted sort of gesture, and then he's all alone once more.

There's a certain kind of humor in the fact that Jim did spare his life, and this is how he chooses to spend it.

There's the sound of trucks a few blocks down, the loud shouting of some sort of argument in one of these buildings, the rattle of the pipes, and he listens to it all as he catches his breath. He's sore, so sore, and isn't looking forward to the walk home. It would be so easy to just collapse into one of the piles of trash nearby — easy, but unwise. So he finally pulls himself to his feet, re-straightens his hair one last time, and walks out toward the street.

Someday he'll figure out a way to make that man his friend.


End file.
